The Repairman- The Complete Box Set

by L. J. Martin

  It seems like I’ve only made three or four casts into some ripples when Pax shakes me awake.

  “This damned short airstrip is a bit of a challenge. Thought I'd wake you before he brakes it and throws you on the floor. Here’s a cup of mud,” he hands me some strong coffee and, as soon as I’m half done, calls me forward. There’s a pair of tables between seats on either side of the passageway. So, four of us take seats while Pax and our co-pilot, Toby Bartlett, an old buddy I recognize, lean over the backs while Pax reads us in.

  “Two Land Rovers will meet us at touchdown, one with a small two-wheel trailer. Or contact has hacked the eye-in-the-sky and our enemy SAT phones and will put us on the trail. Our guides and drivers are Tuareg locals, and speak both Tuareg, a variety of the Algerian Tamazight and the local Bedouin and Berber dialects. They speak some Wargli, which is the area into which we venture. Both guides are desert people, the Blue People they're called for what they wear and the fact it stains their skin. If Taj is right, and he’s seldom wrong, we’re going to an ancient ruin on a small mountain in a wide wadi southeast of Ouargla, a large city by desert standards, well over a hundred thousand population, a little over six hundred miles from our touchdown. This ruin, an ancient mosque and palace, some hundred miles beyond, is now off limits to tourists due to recent civil unrest. That’s one of the reasons, and SAT phone intercepts. Taj says he’s on the cell phone, although it’s travelling in and out of service. He thinks it’s our destination.”

  “What assets do we have?” I ask.

  “What we have may not be near enough. Taj says the transportation could be thanks to the Algerian military.”

  “Too bad for them,” I say, but, in fact, that worries me.

  “We got Six M4’s, night vision scopes for two of them, two with 37mm grenade launchers and a dozen frag grenades for each, two M72 LAWS rocket launchers, one light 60mm M224 mortar with a dozen rounds, two .338 Lapua sniper rifles with forty rounds each and one night-vision scope for them. Two DJI Phantom drones, four 28-minute batteries, in hard cases. Ten pounds of C4 with both time and phone detonators. One M249 SAW with two thousand rounds. You have a SAT. I have a SAT, and we have a dozen handhelds. Standard first aid with quick clot. Ji Su will leapfrog, stay no more than thirty mikes behind us for quick extraction should we require, as soon as she’s checked out in the rent-a-Ranger, the Jet Ranger. We’ll have to carry fuel if we have to leave the beaten track, so we’re limited space and weight wise. Of course, we have desert camo and backpacks with standard gear, MREs to last two weeks, and our drivers have been instructed to load water and fuel in the trailer, so we can drive more than a thousand miles without a domestic fuel stop. Speaking of that, detailed maps with topo for Morocco, Algeria and Libya. Anything I missed?”

  That’s my man. So, I add, “dancing girls, Jack Daniel’s and a Marine division?”

  “All you want of the first two, when we return.”

  I feel the pilot throttle back and presume we’re on the glide path.

  Sheik Hassan grabs his SAT phone as it rattles.

  “They dropped it but missed. The load is somewhere near Goat Mountain,” Al-Wandi reports.

  “Can it be reached?” the Sheik demands.

  “It is down, a huge load under many parachutes. It must be reached by hard climbing.”

  “How long?”

  “An hour, maybe two.”

  “Then I must order more women killed.”

  Al-Wandi is silent for a moment, then suggests, “May I speak, my Sheik?”

  “Do.”

  “I would wait. If you kill more, they might do something harsh. I heard other aircraft even after the big cargo ship departed. They have drones, they have eyes in the night. They could destroy the load…the gold…and us, should they not trust us. And they have dropped the load.”

  Now the Sheik is quiet for a moment. Then he concedes. “All right, Al-Wandi. I will wait two hours, but no more. Report your progress.”

  52

  Our drivers, Abdallah Gatif, who says his nickname is Abby, is in the lead vehicle. Dawad Ziadi, who we quickly nickname Waddy, is in number two. They are waiting, as Taj promised—in fact more than he promised—with two Military Land Rover Wolfs, light utility trucks, and a two-wheel trailer. The trailer is loaded with a hundred-gallon fuel tank, with hand pump, centered over the axle, and five cases of one-liter bottles of water. It and the small compartment in the rear of each Rover are soon packed tight with our gear.

  Our crew is Pax, my always partner, former Marine Recon sniper and a computer guru; Bojing, former SEAL, half-Korean half-Chinese, who Pax and I worked with in an extraction from North Korea; Skip, former Recon Marine who we’ve worked with many times including in the Corps in Iraq; Tobias Bartlett who is the G5 copilot and who I worked with in Paraguay; and our new mercenaries, Abby and Waddy. Taj, as always, is way ahead of us, even from his distant location of Malta. We soon learn Abby and Waddy are both former French Foreign Legion, and I raise my expectations of their value to the mission.

  I’m not surprised to learn Abby and Waddy have their own weapons. Both carry German 9mm HK sidearms and French FAMAS assault rifles in standard 5.56 mm.

  Of course, Sa’id is along for the ride and it may be a good thing as he has visited the lair of the head of the snake, Sheik Ali Hassan, the mullah in charge of this mission, in his palace deep in the Libyan dessert near Wadi Al Hayaa. Even Taj hasn’t been able to get any detail on the Sheik’s palace, much deeper in the Sahara out of Algeria in Libya. Hopefully we’ll have no need of that intel.

  Ji Su is in reserve and should be close behind in a Jet Ranger; Taj and his sons are standing by in Malta, hacking every military and intelligence asset in hyperspace; and Sol, Pax’s number one at Weatherwax Internet Services in Las Vegas is using his big brain online.

  I’m going back to sleep, as Pax will keep an eye on Sa’id, and Abby is driving. We’ve got at least fourteen hours on the road. Just as I’m about to doze off, stretched out as far as possible in the back seat of the Land Rover, my SAT phone rattles.

  “Reardon,” I answer.

  "My daughter's not answering her cell and I see by the news the fucking ship is under attack or some goddamned thing."

  "It was."

  “You better have my fucking daughter with you or you’re a dead man.”

  I clear my throat and my mind before speaking. “Mort Meyer, I presume. I wondered why I haven’t heard from you.”

  “I’ve been in Tahiti on a shoot and just got back to this terrible news.”

  “Your daughter is among the missing…”

  “Missing how?”

  “All the women on board were taken.”

  "And, where the fuck were you?"

  "Throwing two of the fuckers overboard after I killed them. I’m on Simone's trail now. "

  He’s silent for a long moment, then his voice waivers. “Where…where are you ‘on the trail’?”

  “I’m with a crew of mine, well-armed, well-provisioned, in country. We know the approximate location and we will extract the women.”

  "What country?"

  "Algeria."

  “You let them take my daughter to some shithole in Algeria, you prick. How long before you get her back?”

  “Have no idea, Mister Meyer, but I won’t stop until I get Simone…Sally back.”

  “I hope I don’t see you until you deliver her safely to me.”

  “I’m signing off now. I’ll bring Sally home to you.”

  “I trusted you. I paid you what you asked. I expect nothing less.”

  And he hangs up. It sounds like he might have thrown the phone against a wall.

  Frazier Mendleson caught the weekly CIA flight in the Company’s Dassault Falcon 50. The jet masquerades as a private business flight, primarily for the covert movement of terror suspects, but when not involved in that effort makes weekly flights to Europe, normally landing in Schiphol International in Amsterdam.

  Twice during the flight
, he talked with Colonel Musa, his conversation relayed via Langley. He feared he was getting nowhere with the terrorist.

  But due to the immediacy of the op, Mendleson was delivered directly to Malaga where he was met and briefed by Harry Weinstein. SEALs landed on Blue Pearl, breached the LPG room by cutting through a bulkhead, disarmed the device and cleared the ship. So far, they’ve found twenty-two dead dressed in camo, presumed hostiles, and two wounded who’d been flown to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, LRMC, the U.S. Army hospital in Rhineland-Palatinate, Germany. At least one was expected to live. He would be turned over to the CIA for extensive interrogation.

  The SEAL team had returned and was staging at Gibraltar, awaiting clearance to be the lead into Libya or Algeria to extract the women. Secretary of State William Prosper Williamson himself was landing in Algiers, along with his aide from the Algerian desk, Forrest Matson, and scheduled to meet with President Abdelkader Ouyahia to negotiate the necessity for our military to conduct an operation on Algerian territory.

  The President had given Williamson forty-eight hours to gain Algeria's approval, then had instructed him to begin evacuating the mission and informing all Americans in country to leave posthaste.

  He had no intention of having the legacy of his predecessor, the peanut farmer, and leaving Americans to rot in what he considered a shithole. Negotiations were underway with Niger, Mali, and Egypt to stage troops in those areas.

  It wasn’t going to be a simple negotiation with President Ouyahia. Algeria is deeply suspicious and has already assured POTUS and the Secretary of State that their own military, the Armée Nationale Populaire, the armed forces of the People’s Democratic Republic of Algeria, is perfectly capable of handling the problem and would deliver the women back safely.

  Except for clashes with Morocco in 1963 and 1976, the armed forces have not been involved in hostilities against a foreign power. Their combat capabilities in defense of the country remain untested. And the military plays a major role in government and our Algerian desk is positive they will never allow the incursion of American troops, in any numbers, not even one, into the country.

  And we know the military is not in control of their country.

  The Secretary has been briefed by his aide: Al Qaeda and the Islamic Maghreb, the MUJAO—Movement for Oneness and Jihad in West Africa—as well as Al-Shabaab, are active in Algeria. Even those groups are divided. Al Qaeda has split into northern cells and southern cells, with the former sticking more closely to its jihadi origins and the latter increasingly turning to criminal activity. Many former tourist attractions are now closed due to the prevalence of kidnapping. Algeria and the wider region through much of Libya are affected by organized crime. Drug and arms trafficking, as well as cigarette and fuel smuggling, are a significant source of income. Kidnapping for ransom, particularly of Europeans, is a major source of funding for Islamist groups and is rampant. Protests in the cities erupt on a daily basis due to a lack of basic services and unemployment. The regime has taken steps to appease protestors, which has prevented the protests from escalating in the same way that they did in other countries in the Middle East and North Africa region during the 'Arab Sprint'.

  To say Algeria is unstable is a great understatement.

  And adjoining Libya is far worse.

  The Sixth Fleet is rapidly approaching off Algiers, which, in fact, compounds the problem and the fear of the true intent of the Americans.

  After all, Algeria is more and more, an oil-rich country.

  United States Navy Task Force 62 is currently steaming along the north coast of Algiers. The combat-ready ground force is composed of a Marine expeditionary unit of approximately one thousand nine hundred Marines equipped with armor, artillery, and transport. They will lay up at the edge of the twelve-mile maritime limit and await the conclusion of negotiations.

  It’s not a wise move, as Algeria is martialing its armed forces in strategic locations, becoming adamant no American forces will enter Algeria.

  Then again, this President is no peanut farmer.

  53

  I'm awakened by my SAT phone, Abby still driving, and see the sparse lights of Ouargla not far away. I yawn and stretch before answering, knowing it's likely Simone's worried daddy. I should have known better. It's Harry Weinstein and the CIA, likely wondering if I'm about to cause a major international incident.

  "Where the hell are you?" he asks in a demanding tone.

  "Playing Lawrence of Arabia. Where the hell are you?"

  "I'm with Frazier Mendleson, CIA section chief terrorism and member of the Joint Terrorism Task Force, who's flown here in regard to this incident…”

  "Harry, you may call a major terrorist attack against several hundred Americans and the kidnapping of over a hundred, an incident. I call it a fucking outrage that needs immediate retaliation."

  "…and he wants to speak with you," he continues as if I haven't interrupted.

  "I have no interest in a lecture from some spook." I offer in the same demanding tone Harry's been using.

  "Look, Reardon, this is important. Hold on..."

  A new voice. "Mister Reardon, this is Section Chief Mendleson…”

  "What can I do for you, Mendleson?" I ask, with an equally officious tone.

  "Stand down. These animals are killing innocent Americans.”

  That silences me for a minute. And strengthens my resolve. My trigger finger will move even more quickly now.

  Mendleson continues, “We know you're in Algeria, without a visa, and about to cause an international incident. We have negotiations underway…”

  "Without a visa?" I can't help but laugh. "Sorry, Chief. I have a job to do and it won't wait for negotiations."

  "Reardon, you could be responsible for the deaths of more than a hundred American citizens. I don't know what you could be charged with, offhand, but I'm sure the list is as long as my arm. As would be your stay in Leavenworth."

  "Could be. You keep negotiating and I'll call back in a few days and see how y'all are doing. In the meantime, I'll be having tea with the locals. Right now, I'm a little busy so stand by your phone. If you want to do something constructive as I may need a little help, how about loaning me a drone with a couple of Hellfire missiles, or maybe a Wart Hog A10 or two."

  "Look, Reardon…” he manages before I disconnect. I think he gets the idea that I'm not going to 'stand down'.

  The phone rattles again, but I ignore it.

  "You gonna answer the damn SAT phone," Pax asks, yawning and stretching.

  "Nope. Just somebody wanting to sell me health insurance." I flash him a grin.

  "I'd grab it," he says, and adds, "You're damn likely to need it. Does it include burial insurance?"

  "I figure that's a waste of money as you assholes would likely feed me to the dogs."

  Abby joins in, "Damn few dogs in Muslim countries. A few hyena’s way in the south. They would do the job."

  "Thanks, Abby, for the help," I say, and PAX's SAT phone rattles.

  He picks up. Says hello, nods a couple of times, then disconnects and turns to me.

  "Taj has tracked this Alia's cell phone a hundred miles south east of Ouargla." Then he turns to Sa'id, who also has awakened. "Mister Sa'id, I believe you know more than you've divulged. I think you know exactly where you assholes are taking these women."

  "I told you what I thought."

  "And why did you think that?" Pax presses.

  "I overheard Mumin talking to the Sheik, and that is what they discussed."

  "And that was what was long planned?"

  "I believe so, yes."

  "Have you been there?" I ask.

  He looks a little sheepish and I know he's been holding out.

  Finally, he speaks up, "I have been there. I helped in the preparation of the palace for the arrival of the infidels."

  "Sa'id, let me assure you, if you hold back anything more, I will gut you like a catfish and stuff you with hog fat. Understand?"

&nbs
p; "Yes, yes, yes, I will tell all." His eyes are round and bulging like volleyballs.

  I have a small notebook in my bug out bag and dig it out and hand it and a pen to him. "You will draw, accurately, all you know about this so-called palace. First the plan and location of all buildings, the surrounding territory, rocks, trees, brush. Then the plan, location of all rooms, where guards or soldiers will be housed. All you know. Take your time and do it correctly as your life may depend upon your accuracy."

  "I will be accurate."

  We skirt the large city of Ouargla passing lots of trucks and cars, mostly old and some packed with locals, then on the far side take a dirt track southwest into the Sahara. For the first few miles, we pass some patches that pass for farms, but mostly barren landscape with the occasional rock poking up through the sand like jagged logs floating on a flat pond. And the temperature rises with the sun. Abby even comments:

  "It must be forty degrees already. It may reach forty-three or even more."

  Of course, he means centigrade so by midmorning it's one hundred ten Fahrenheit. It could go to one twenty.

  I can't help but smile as in the distance a couple of hundred yards from the road are a half-dozen camels, half of them mounted with riders pushing a few dozen sheep and goats.

  I point them out to Abby, who explains, "Sanusi Bedouin. They are one of the most unique groups of our people. They observe the traditional nomadic lifestyle and the religious teachings of a prophet known as Sayyid Muhammad ibn' Ali as-Sanusi. They are a peaceful people, unlike many other tribes."

  Then his attention turns to the job at hand. "We will arrive at our objective in the heat of the day. I will not approach on the road as they will have forward observers. I know of a small Oasis only two clicks from the main one where Ma'an Helu was built. Suggest we recon there and plan our attack."

  "And rest up," I add, "and wait for the cover of darkness."

  "Wise. Give these hostiles, who Sa'id has said are mostly Yemini, Sudanese and Somali, time to chew plenty khat and get very peaceful before they go to meet Allah."